[Roller-user] Rolling down his convulsed face. The man bowe

[Odonnell <it...@pi...>]

Thing of a descent, but we must make it before we can find any Winter
poetry worth quoting. Here is a picture, ready-made, for Landseer to put
into form and color: "There, warm together pressed, the trooping deer
Sleep on the new-fallen snows; and scarce his head Raised o'er the heapy
wreath, the branching elk Lies slumbering sullen in the white abyss. The
ruthless hunter wants nor dogs nor toils, Nor with the dread of sounding
bows he drives The fearful flying race: with ponderous clubs, As weak
against the mountain-heaps they push Their beating breast in vain, and
piteous bray, He lays them quivering on the ensanguined snows, And with
loud shouts rejoicing bears them home." Cowper is superior to Thomson as
a painter of Winter, although it is doubtful whether he was by nature
the better poet. Here is one of his pictures: "The cattle mourn in
corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified with
sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not
like hungering man, Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek, And patient
of the slow-paced swain's delay. He, from the stack, carves out the
accustomed load, Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, The broad
keen knife into the solid mass: Smooth as a wall, the upright remnant
stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no
needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or
its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving, unconcerned,
The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe And drive the